


with a hoarse voice, under the blankets.

by bittertofu



Series: thirty-five ways he said 'i love you.' [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 21:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittertofu/pseuds/bittertofu
Summary: He can't help himself. It's hard to think. It's hard to breathe.





	with a hoarse voice, under the blankets.

**Author's Note:**

> a series of drabbles.

 

Helpless.

That's how he felt kissing Akira Kurusu. Helpless, and a little desperate. Those hands moving over him, so soft, so tender, could only make him shiver. Those teeth worrying at his bottom lip, that tongue rolling gently over it, could only make him moan.

Undressing was quick, dirty, indelicate. Akechi couldn't get Akira naked fast enough, and it seemed to him that Akira felt very much the same.

Kisses, peppered over Akechi's throat, down his chest. Lips and tongue fluttering across his bare stomach. And then...

He gasped when Akira took him into his mouth. Swirled his tongue around the tip, flicked his tongue up and down the shaft. Akechi's hands knotted into that curly mess of hair on top of Akira's head and pulled, and pulled, and pulled.

Helpless. Desperate.

The next time Akira's mouth closed over his, Akechi lapped at him eagerly, mashed their lips together, caught Akira's tongue with his tongue. Still hard, and frustrated as hell, he bucked his hips to meet Akira's erection with his own.

The moans that escaped both of them made Akechi's head swim. Reality swept over him for just a moment. What was he doing? And who was he doing it with? Disgust knotted his stomach, repulsion at himself, at Akira Kurusu, at their stupid, useless biological urges.

He wasn't attracted to Akira. He wasn't. He told himself he wasn't. And yet...

And yet when Akira's fingers prodded his entrance, he whimpered pathetically into Akira's ear. Akira chuckled, nuzzled against Akechi's throat.

Akira reached for something (Lube? Why did he have that? That bastard couldn't have known...), slathered some of the substance onto his fingertips. The gentleness with which Akira inserted his fingers, one by one, into Akechi, made him hate himself even more.

In, out, in, out, until Akechi couldn't stand it anymore.

“Kurusu,” Akechi gasped, “I...I need...I...”

Without further prompting, Akira slid into Akechi slowly, slowly, until Akechi was full of him, stretched to aching. Akechi clung to Akira, raked nails across his pale back. Gently, so gently, Akira ran his hand through Akechi's hair. Pushed his bangs out of his face. Kissed him tenderly enough to make his chest hurt.

“Okay?” Akira asked.

Breath coming in small gasps, unable even to form words, Akechi only nodded. Rocked his hips urgently, begging Akira to _move_ , damn it, and to do it soon.

Akira began to thrust, once, twice, three times. The sounds spilling out of Akechi's mouth embarrassed him, but he couldn't really control his voice.

Wrong, wrong, this was all wrong. But, god, it felt so good. Akira pressing into him, pinning him down, hands clutching at his hands.

Not wanting to let Akira have all the fun, he pushed him over and straddled him, rode him, grinned down at him, threw back all the smugness Akira ever inflicted on him. Akira growled at him (growled!) and gripped tightly at his thighs. Squeezed them with every motion of Akechi's hips. Distantly, Akechi thought his legs might bruise. Caught as he was in the moment, though, he could hardly care less.

Akira came first with a shuddering moan, squeezing Akechi's thighs so hard it drew a whimper out of him. And then Akechi came, hard, spurting over Akira's chest. Akechi collapsed on top of Akira, breath still hitching, hips still rocking. Akira wrapped arms around him and held him tight.

“Goro,” he breathed into Akechi's ear, hoarse, needy, satisfied. “I love you.”

Akechi's blood ran cold. He stiffened in Akira's arms.

No. No, it couldn't be. He didn't want this. _He couldn't bear this_.

Pushing himself off of Akira, he cleaned himself up as best he could and dressed quickly, pretending he couldn't feel Akira's scorching eyes boring into his back. He left Leblanc in a hurry, convincing himself that the stinging in his eyes was due to the dry wind blowing into his face.

Locked in his apartment, teeth grit against the sick roiling inside of him, he punched the wall over and over and over, until his knuckles were dotted with blood.


End file.
